


The Sound of Silence

by RadioCybertron



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hacking, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Relationship, Power Play, non consensual BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioCybertron/pseuds/RadioCybertron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forgetting about the Shadow Zone was their first mistake. Forgetting who they left there was the last one they'd ever make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/gifts).



There were little things that never quite added up. The static that occasionally laced through Earth-fed music channels, the occasional blips that showed up on his scanners. Nothing that could even conceivably be called sensor ghosts, but something just on the edge of vision.

But not quite diagnosed as paranoia. 

Even after Cybertron’s reinstatement, regrowth and subsequent change.. he had found himself reverting back to his old war-time schedule. It was the only thing that made sense, gave him purpose- and if he was honest, made the pain a little less. They still didn’t formally have a hospital, much less any other formal medical facility. It was up to him, and the learning Knock Out to make sure that what was left of the Autobot-Decepticon factions, as well as any incoming neutrals, could be left in any running order.

In between vicious bouts of rampant insanity, usually Wheeljack or Bulkhead’s fault- there were long stretches of tedious _nothing_. Those were the nights he dismissed the red speedster to the tracks, allowing him to burn off his own lingering grief the only other way he knew how besides interfacing.

As for himself?

Well, certain wounds were doomed never to heal. It’s not as if the other mech in question ever had the chance to know, anyway. He had kept any and all personal involvements to himself, and by himself for the most part. Getting emotionally attached to a mech was the quickest way to self-destruct, and he’d seen too many of his best students go down that road with expediency. 

He had decided that if that’s what it took to survive… well, there were worse things to sacrifice than personal happiness. 

So, longer shifts meant less time to think and less time in recharge to be teased with fluxes he knows he’d never have the chance to experience. He’d curbed his high-grade intake long before the war, and did not want to experience that particular dependency again.

But still, despite all of this- those glitches persisted and in some areas, increased. Music channels, dialed in to soothe patients, hopped and skipped. Sometimes they went to static, sometimes to a news station and then sometimes they stopped all together before resuming. Blips would appear on bio-scanners, registering a presence and then nothing.

Less than sensor ghosts, somewhere between a wraith and a dream.

And of course, he believed in none of that.

Until the fluxes began.

_Long shadows dancing upon walls. Tendrils that curl and coil around plating, ever so carefully. Touching his faceplates, chevron, over check and to lips._

_Waiting. Teasing._

_It’s the most he’s been touched since before they left Cybertron, and he’s surprised at how quickly his frame is heating up just from the strokes to his frame and seams. It’s embarrassing, almost. Except, there are fingers joining those tendrils- deft and sure, that find their way to the protoform to dance along sensors and bio-lights._

_Darker than night, he can see a frame straddling his waist. Wide at the shoulder-struts and slim at the hips- but he cannot touch. His fingers lift and reach, but cannot seem to lift from the berth. There is a thread of amusement that he can feel, though he cannot explain how._

_Those fingers slide up to his face, cupping it gently as they reach for his lips. He parts them willingly to let the slim digits slip inside. From beneath, something works at his plating, slipping between his modesty cover to brush over both spike and valve covers. He jolts at that, body shaking._

And awakens. 

Each flux left him shaking, hot and flushed with condensation that beads over plating. He hasn’t had issues like this since his first frame upgrade. Since his first crush on a young doctor with wings, many vorns and three spark breaks ago. He takes care of it the only way he can without a partner, hand fisting his spike while he plunders his valve with two fingers and attacks the node with his thumb. Messy and rough, he doesn’t bother with being silent and bashful. His words are full of curses and pleas. 

It’s frustrating, irritating and worst of all- disappointing. 

The overload comes fast, hard and sudden. He crests over the edge, back arching and plating flaring to allow the excess heat to escape and energy to crackle between. It does not linger long, fading into the darkness like it had never been. 

It leaves him cold, shivering and empty. 

The nights are filled with little rest, and shadows that seem to linger longer on the walls. He cannot recharge after the fluxes, and stays up to work on medical texts and reports that were damaged by the war. Might as well do something useful with the time if he cannot use it to recharge. The comms are linked into the shaky intra-net they have going on. With Blaster still MIA with the rest of the Wrecker crew, it’s hard to have any sort of functioning intel-net that he hasn’t built himself.

He gets commentary on how ill-rested he looks, causing him to revert to the more caustic side of his personality in defense. “Ratchet the Hatchet” is resurrected, much to his consternation. He ignores their commentary, their advice and their looks. They cannot fix what is wrong when there is nothing wrong in the first place. 

Besides, it only takes a little effort on his part- and they give up anyway. Which is precisely what he was waiting on. After all, it isn’t the first time- and given his history, it will not be the last.

And from the corners, the shadows watch.

—————————————————————————

Or more accurately, _he_ watches. 

Which is all he can do, at the moment. Watch, and with some amount of concentration, influence. He has been watching since those wretched fleshlings imprisoned him in this place. However, despite the curse that the Shadow Zone is- there is also a muted blessing that he had not accounted for.

The zone exists not as a _where_ , but a _when_. He had become worried once his fuel levels had started to drop as he’d watch the events unfold that had led to the destruction of what was left of the Decepticons and the rebuilding of Cybertron. His levels had dropped, yes- but they wavered between 40% and 60%, but never lower. 

The implications meant that for as long as he existed within this immovable sphere of time, he never had to worry about refueling because it reset itself each time. It also meant that he was free to scheme and plan for a way to get himself out of here, as long as he avoided the undead mecha that still patrolled. Unfortunately, not even deactivation worked here. 

Guttering out a spark, only to watch it reform not even a breem later was terrifying- even for him.

So, he had found other pursuits, other ways to entertain himself. Debris from other places, other times, other civilizations had been pulled in from different eras. He had managed to reverse engineer what Cybertronian equipment he had found in order to make himself a comm system, and a miniature gate. He was no Shockwave, but he had downloaded the ground-bridge schematics many vorns ago during their long working relationship. 

Of course, building all of this is futile without a power source. 

Which is where his dear, _dear_ targets come into play. 

Ratchet isn’t the only mech he’s managed to reach from here. The younger Cybertronians, unknowing of who he is, or what he was were more susceptible to nudges in their processor. He may not know why he’s transporting energon to an odd location, only that a moment later he doesn’t remember doing it at all. 

Behind the opaque mask he smiles as cubes waver into existence in front of him, and with it- hopes of escape. 

It takes time, and thankfully- even here, it’s something he has in abundance. Never too much energon at any given time, never too much influence from one mech to another. Nothing that would be considered out of character, nothing that would be noticed out of rations. He plays his game of long range hax, slipping into processors.

And to indulge himself, into refluxes.

He’s particularly fixated on Ratchet, the former Autobot medic. 

If he’s honest with himself, the mech started out as a subtle form of revenge. Optimus Prime may be deactivated, but the mech that cared for him still lingers. What better way to torment him, than to slip into his dreams. He had begun them as night-fluxes, horrors that he had dug out of the mech’s unguarded cortex to haunt him with. It had proved worthless after a while, as it’s hard to haunt a mech with failure when he already does it to himself so well. 

What had began as a means of torment and some energy release became something else. He began to notice that with his equipment, he could pick up the mech’s sparkpulse.

But only on overload.

It had been confusing for all of a moment until he figured out the implications, and that the point of overload from the medic meant that he could use the energy spike as an _anchor point_. In theory, all he had to do would be to spark merge with the mech, gain access to his spark energy and cement the point and use the ground bridge he had managed to kludge together to get out of this infernal prison. There’s an irony in using the one mech that sent him here to begin with, a delicious sense that makes him laugh- the sound flat and echoing. He drinks in the other’s misery and loneliness as he would his energon, and uses it to his advantage.

Freedom is so infuriatingly close, so tempting.

Patience… _patience._

Starscream and Megatron failed because they could not hold what was in their grasp long enough to see all the possiblities, because they could not _wait_. He can, however. Flux after flux, dream after dream- he tips the medic from one point to another. It takes soft touches and phantom brushes to turn the medic from exhausted into revved. 

He can feel pain in there too, and it makes the pleasure all the more sweeter. When he is done and when he is free, he will not only own his freedom.

He will own the mech that freed him. 

It will be tonight.

——————————————————

The fluxes resume, as they always do. Tantalizing and infuriating with their touches and sensations. It goes further this time, however, the shadows on the wall thickening their darkness.

But never their outline.

He feels like he is missing something very vital, like he should remember… _something_. 

The touches make him forget. 

_They make him burn. Thick cables that bind around his wrists and his ankle joints, separating legs so that a slim frame can rest between them. Deft fingers manipulate sensor arrays, making bio-lights flare like the hot-spots on Cybertron’s surface._

_Alive and vibrant._

_He hates it._

_He loves it._

_He wants to cry out, but a thick cable finds itself across his mouth- tendrils dancing across dentae, across glossa. He has no recourse but to gently tease them in retaliation. There is a surprised shudder at this, cables tightening around their respective joints. The frame is cold against his, so cold- but it is lean and strong and he wants more of it._

_He wants -someone.-_

_Anyone._

_He is so tired of being alone._

_The shadows are thick where a faceplate should be, swirling and dark. They linger and lean forward as the mech’s frame bows and a glossa suddenly  begins to tease where fingers do not along seams. He arches hard at this, a surprised cry escaping past the tendril in his mouth, a muffled “Please!”_

_It breaks him._

_All of these fluxes, all of these dreams and promised phantom touches and he cannot stand waking up to cold reality. He is tired, and he is so very done. The glossa dips and flicks here and there, working it’s way up to thread between the cables in his neck. Sharp dentae bite and nibble, working to ramp the building charge higher, and higher._

_All he wants is for his dream-partner to bring him to overload. His fingers and his hand no longer bring him the release necessary._

_He needs this._

_The hips against his begin a slow grind, rolling in liquid arches that rub in sensuous little motions. It’s erotic, it’s exotic and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever felt in a long time. He can feel himself starting to wet behind his covers, and he’s not even unlatched._

_It’s embarrassing._

_He doesn’t care._

_Fingers work their way down to his modesty plate, finding the manual latch easy. His fingers twitch in an effort to break free from their bindings, but the cables tighten- forcing them over his head and against the wall. It doesn’t do anything but ramp his charge up yet another notch. The ones holding his ankles bring his legs around that waist, hooking them together at the small of the other’s back plates._

_He is completely at the other’s mercy._

_The liquid heat of his dream lover’s mouth finds it’s way to his audial, and his chevron and finally to his own lips. He’s plundered like a cache of energon, stripped of his own voice and breathe and devoured. The glossa that darts out to taste his is quick, agile and pointed. It traces everything, evading his efforts to capture, to suckle and he moans in frustration._

_Disappointment wars with the twisting knot of need in his lower frame, and a whimper escapes his vocalizer before he can stop it. The frame atop his pauses at that whimper, the devouring mouth drawing back to pant warm little vents over his frame. The fingers that had been teasing nodes at his side pause over his chest, over his spark and his hips grind hard against that valve._

_“Let me in…”_  
  
His optics widen as he recognizes the voice- it’s depth and resonance recognizable on a strut deep level. His own voice quavers back a response.  
  
“Optimus?”  
  
The fingers over his chest tap again, brushing over the seam that separates the plates and leads to the protective chamber down below.   
  
“Let me in, old friend.”  


_He shakes at those words, plating rattling as the plea hits him in frame, strut and spark. There was no way to ignore the words, no way to disobey them._

_Not in that tone and not in that voice._

_He does what is asked of him, the outer plates separating to reveal the clear protective ones below. Those are likewise parted to allow the contained blue and white ball of energy to whirl in it’s containment field, flaring with desire and a touch of distress._

_“Thank you, Ratchet.”  
_

_The frame above him leans down, locks sliding into place as they slide chest to chest. His own frame arches up as a thick spike is slid home, igniting every node it comes across until the mech is fully seated inside of him. He arches at that, crying out with the very first thrust and then every subsequent one. It has been so long, and he is so very sensitive that it feels like every stab forward is going to spear him through the spark._

_It’s brutal._

_It is rough._

_It is glorious._

_Though his spark is bared, the other’s is not. The cables finally let his wrists go, allowing him to clench at those wide shoulders as deft fingers come up to cup at his face and slide down to his neck. The charge that had been building finally crests itself, slamming into him like the force of a combiner team. He screams hard enough to spit static, legs tightening around the hips that are jackhammering into him and make the mech above him growl._

_And that’s when they merge._

_There is nothing but agony as rather than push at his spark, something pulls instead._

_Overload._

_Green energy above him, swirling in a vortex._

_Nightmare, shadows on the wall._

_Pain._

_Weight._

_Darkness._

_Blackout._

It’s nearer the morning when he finally comes to, sitting straight up as he comes to full alertness. However, those battle protocols have long since been disengaged. He shakes as he sits up, remembering the flux the night before. Trembling hands reach up to touch his faceplates, his throat to check for dents.

For moisture.

For evidence. 

He eases up on tremulous legs and makes his way towards the wash racks, hoping against hope that it was nothing more than a nasty flux. That it was all nothing more than a flux and sees…

…nothing. 

Just a tired mech with a poor finish, and low energy levels. 

He sags against the wall, almost sobbing in relief as he spots nothing out of the ordinary. No scrapes on his armor that could be seen. No fluid drying, no marks on wrists or pedes.

 It’s all just dreams. 

It takes almost two joors to clean off all of the previous night cycle’s terrors. He cleans himself from helm to pede, inside his armor and out of it. He spends the time waxing, and polishing to actually give himself a finish that doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping on one side of an alleyway. And it’s easing back into his home office to get his data-pad that he hears it.

Soft, resonant. 

_“Let me in.”  
_

He pauses, armor flaring a little in distress. The words come from nowhere, and they come from everywhere. They fade almost as soon as he hears them. A quick security scan of his domicile reveals himself, and nothing else. He grumbles after a moment, chalking it up to deprivation before heading back to the door.

_“Ratchet.”  
_

He spins around at that, this time snarling out to the silence that tries to oppress him. 

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” 

His helm swings from side to side, fingers curling into claws as he keeps a tight hold on that datapad and ready to use it as a weapon. His armor clamps back tight to protect him, kibble flaring out to sense danger. Silence reigns in response to his question, leaving him nothing but the pulse of his own energon in his audials.

His invents are audible, and while while not panicked- they are quickening. 

He is NOT crazy, he is not.

He counts the breems and microseconds, waiting for the voice to return. 

And it does, this time behind him. 

He spins around, bringing the datapad around behind him to slam it against the perpetrator. Only to have it embed itself into the wall. He snarls at this in frustration, backing away and accidentally bumps into something that moves with him. 

It makes him stop cold, but the voice freezes him.

“Hello, old _friend_.”

It is not Optimus.

Thick cables surround him, binding arms and legs against the frame at his back and ensuring that he cannot move and cannot break free. One cable slides around his neck, choking air from his frame.The frame at his back is hot, and so are the vents that brush over his neck cables and his audial. He hasn’t heard that voice in over fifteen thousand vorns, since before the accident that reduced it to a monotone. Slim fingers brushed over his throat, forcing his helm to turn to look at the reflective mask. It retracts as he faces him, gold optics narrowing as he takes in the medic’s features. He whispers once more, soft and raspy.

A gentle reminder to the medic, as that cable around his neck tighten further and forces his chin up. He leans down to cover the medic’s mouth with his own, smiling at the trembling frame beneath his.

“ _Soundwave_ : superior.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking is a delicate thing, and Soundwave is a master at fixing what he breaks.

He is a ghost.

A wraith that dances on the edge of Ratchet’s vision, but so very real. 

He’s there when he comes back to his quarters in the afternoon after his shift at the pseudo medical center. There are no more double shifts for him anymore, no more splits. There is a presence in the back of his processor now, logging everything that he does and everyone that he talks to. The security systems are woefully outdated, and outclassed.

He knows he’s being watched, and he shivers minutely before he’s able to stop himself. The previous decaorn had brought no new fluxes, but it had brought upon one unholy hell of a fight. The former gladiator may have staked his claim, but that didn’t mean he was going to let him take it. His quarters are still being repaired and even now, his frame still bears some hidden scars of their “engagement.”

He lost, and beneath the vertebral array that protects his sensitive neck cabling is proof of his ownership. It is not a collar and it is not a chain. 

Soundwave installed a cortical port during one of his black outs. The link up completely bypasses all of his firewalls, all of his protections and gives the ‘Con unfettered access to _everything_ that is himself. The former gladiator contains at least two data-cables capable of linking up, and he’s never threatened to do so verbally. 

But the warning is there.

It is terrifying.

And as ordered, he returns back to their quarters with his double allotment of energon. No one so much as bat’s an optic at his request. They finally think he’s drinking what he should be, or maybe he’s hiding a lover from them. 

If they only knew.

Door closed, knees down and hands out- energon in sealed cubes waiting to be taken. It may be breems before they are plucked from his servos. It may be joors. That is no longer for _him_ to decide. 

He is so very tired, and so very afraid. 

The same coding installed within him that keeps him under observation also inhibits him from speaking to anyone about his new guest. It deletes code as soon as it pops up, and words die in his throat and processor. He literally cannot think about betraying the other, and the despondency wrenches his spark harder.

He cannot tell anyone.

He cannot ask for help.

He is completely at the other’s mercy.

He has spent a lifetime serving his fellow mechs and femmes, and now- when he needs them the most, he cannot turn to them for help. He’s certain Soundwave is trying to teach him a lesson, or maybe he’s just being an insufferable glitch. Either way, it does nothing but prolong his misery and wrench his spark into further whorls of distress. There is a little part of him that wonders if they even would if he did. It’s not like they ever thanked him for the help they _did_ receive.

_Did_ they? 

“Medic: worried about the wrong thing. Medic: should be worried about _me_.” 

He flinches at the flat tone that seems to come from nowhere, and everywhere. His kibble flares for a moment before he relaxes it. It wouldn’t do to be seen trying to adopt a defensive posture as it would gather nothing more than a sharp rap to his processor again. It took him almost a full orn to pull himself together after that, and another half orn to be able to form coherent sentences. 

For all of his patience, Soundwave’s temper is _nasty_ when it’s riled and worse when he decides to hold a grudge. He also hasn’t missed the other’s deliberate non-use of his designation, and tilts his head down towards the floor once more. He has learned not to look the mech in the facemask, through the carrier has started taking it off while in their shared quarters. It’s a pleasant enough face, scarred about the lips and cheek from facing off against other gladiators and gold optics that hardly miss anything.   
  
“Sorry, sir. Long day.” 

It’s not an excuse, but he doesn’t want to give the other mech a reason to punish him either. His joints ache with his frame twinging in the most uncomfortable of ways, but he does not move. He has not been given permission. He grits his dentae as his arms tremble with the strain of holding up the cubes, forcing them to steady once more.

Long, violet and black cables snake out from behind the former communications officer- and pluck the cubes with deft metal fingers. Two more snake out to lift his chin and tilt his helm back so that he can be observed to the other’s satisfaction. The cubes are sat down on a long sideboard and the medic is guided to his pedes with servos pushed to his sides. 

“Medic: will stand and walk to living area. Will consume energon with master.”

He sputters at that, beginning to snarl out something before the cable at the back of his helm snaps a warning zap at the cortical array. It’s like being slammed in the processor by Bulkhead’s fist- and the blooming pain causes nausea to spread across his tanks. The snarl dies in his throat, along with his resistance at the using the title.

“Medic: WILL consume energon with _master_.” 

This time the order is purred, and the mech has somehow managed to slink pede to pede with him, warm vents rolling over his plating.   
  
“Medic: understand?”  
  
“Yes, sir…”  
  
Another small shock of electricity from the cable to the array, this time causing the overworked medic to stumble and fall against the leaner frame. He is caught, those arms folding around him to trap his own against his sides. The cables that had deposited the energon wind around waist and cradle the back of his helm with deft metal digits.

“Medic… _understand_?”

Slim fingers, adapt at hacking any system from computer terminals to spec ops agents, dance across the cables at his throat. 

It is a threat.

It is a promise.

He swallows what pride he has left, and whispers.

“Yes, master. Medic understands.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality was only ever a jumble of electrical impulses, and shoddy connections.

There are orns when he’s not sure which is worse- the dreams, or waking to this new reality. Optimus haunts him during his recharge with his steady presence and strong timbre. Soundwave haunts his waking joors, a steady shadow that flickers from the corners of his optics, like a holoscreen going bad.

The warmth behind him reminds him that either way, he is not free from either. 

It’s a heavy field that drags across his, turgid with intent. He can no more recoil from it than he could vent, as thick cables tighten from their loose caress around ankle joints and wrists. One slides lovingly around his throat, the slim fingerlets brushing over the kibble that rests at his shoulder. He shakes during these caresses, vents exploding raggedly from him. 

Sometimes, he finds the fight he thought he had buried despite the coding restructure. That is when they roll across the berth, his fists landing double blow kisses to the nigh indestructible face-mask of the once-gladiator. His medical coding screams at him during these attempts, snarling and snapping at his cortex to cease and desist- to stop fighting, to stop _hurting_. It would be more effectual, have more of a boost to his morale… if there wasn’t a spike of arousal from his unwanted partner during these attempts. 

But he can no more stop fighting than he can stop venting, even as the second layer of coding snaps onto the first and punishes him for his transgressions. He is not punished with pain, oh no. He is punished with pleasure. He doesn’t understand Soundwave at the best of times, and can’t comprehend him at the worst. 

But somewhere, with those slim fingers buried in his valve, twisting and igniting every node they come across while he tries not to cry out- he finds he does not care. Somewhere, it shifts from fingers to the mech’s fist and he cries out in overload, lubrication staining both plating and the berth. 

He tries to pretend not to hear the hum of satisfaction.

But he cannot help the moan that follows as a thick spike buries itself in the absence left behind. He hates this. He hates the way the mech covers him, pins him. Hates the way those cables come up to wind around him, support him. He hates the way that his legs come up to wind around his waist, rocking back into those bruising thrusts- careful, despite their viciousness. 

He hates the way that the other seems to care for the way his back tries to catch as he bows during a scrape across ignited nodes- the way he’s settled to one side as they shift positions. The control does not shift hands, does not swing in balance. But somewhere along the line, as the Decepticon manipulates the latch to his chest plates and initiates a merge- he realizes that this possession is the best he can hope for. 

And through the merge, he can feel the invisible collar that has been placed around his throat and his spark begin to tighten. His frame shakes as a particularly bruising thrust scrapes metal together, creating friction and sparks as a low, growling tone rumbles into his audial.

_“Mine.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resources are newable, sometimes disposable- but always reusable.

When the medic has his shift, the shadows walk. He has kept mostly to the spacious quarters, luxuriating in the sensations of time, and movement again. The feel of energon sliding down his throat and intakes is a pleasure beyond comprehension. Then again, it always was- especially to those who were one step above the disposables. 

The intra-net is laughable, with no security features to speak of. His arch-nemesis, or at least constant irritation, is somewhere in the far reaches of space- lost, or hopefully deactivated. He wonders little, and cares less. Instead, his searches are more towards the domestic side of things.

Energon production. 

Planet wide statistics.

Former Decepticon locations.

Ultra Magnus had not been idle in his time on this planet, and those that once had been part of the “rebellion” were fitted with tracking devices before let go, or exiled. Their pings keep them either in the city, or out of it, depending on their usefulness. Knock Out is laughably easy to find, working side by side with Ratchet. He makes a note of the mech, but he is not his target. 

He searches out the remaining leaders within the Decepticon High Command, to see if there is any lingering orders, any messages on the shadow network they had once commanded. 

There is nothing. 

Megatron’s dreams are dust. Shockwave’s technology has been commandeered and adjusted for Autobot usage. There is a single footnote of the mech himself, along with the flashing glyphs for _executed_. Starscream is missing, but not acknowledged as deactivated.

And Megatron’s last known location was somewhere out by the Rust Sea, in the old ruins of Kaon.

How fitting. 

Let the mech rust there. 

It is a painful thing, to watch one’s loyalty turn in on itself like a writhing nest of disturbed rake-snakes. For so long, he had followed a single mech and a single Cause. A reason to _rise up_ out of the gutters of Kaon, to believe they were better than this. To believe there was _something_ beyond the roar of the crowd in the stands, and the acrid smell of dead energon.

To believe, for just a moment, that their active God cared _something_ for the miserable mechs that toiled at the lowest reaches of his planet. And to have it shattered, like Megatron’s blade and his own realization that it had been, all of it, for _nothing_. 

They were back to the beginning. 

His fingers leave rakes over the console as he detaches both fingers and cables from the comm station. His pet is due to be home soon, and it would not be seemly to lose control in front of the already splintering mech. The Autobots have always so foolish as to squander their best resources, to use them up, cast them aside.

To push them to the brink and beyond.

It’s how he’s captured their best soldiers, their canniest spies and their deadliest assassins. They are so sure of their superiority, these Autobots, that they never think that their resources will dry up.

Or turn on them.

He blows out a faint sigh from his vents, allowing data to parse and partition itself onto the various sinks that have been customized into his systems. He brokers the data into different divisions, classifying and storing them away for future use. 

Fact: Ratchet is exhausted.

Fact: Ratchet had feelings for Prime, unknown and unreciprocated.

Fact: Autobots think war has ended. Think they have won.

Fact: Original Decepticon movement is no more. Leaders have been spread out/deactivated/executed.

Fact: He, Soundwave, is the last _free_ Decepticon. 

Fact: He, Soundwave, is the last component of the Decepticon _Cause_. 

Fact: Battle has been lost, but war is not over.

He smiles as logic starts to fall into place, data backing it up and verifying his query. The Decepticions _have_ lost, that is indeed truth- but they have not completely been beaten. For as long as the cause remains, and as long as at least one of them is out there that still believes the Cause, then the Autobots cannot completely build up this utopia on the backs of their enemies’ greyed frames.

As if to pretend they did not exist.

There are already names being written out, redacted and scraped from files. They are trying to wipe the remaining Decepticons from history. He will not let them. Data cables slide out, shifting and plugging into the console as he activates one of remaining suborbital satellites still in use and broadcasts a ping on a channel he has not used in ages.

“Soundwave, to **Meister**. Operation:   _Locate Tarn_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We replay a little ways, slowing back in time. To explain, to detain- to deliberate and refine.

_**Location:** Nemesis. _

Color is a myth. There is no such thing is color. There are a million different hues, and variations that stem from those hues. They span a multitude of spectrums and rainbows. There is no such thing as color. Even black and white aren’t considered colors. 

They are considered values. Light to dark, dark to light… and absolutely beautiful when they’re like this, kneeling in front of him and hands cuffed behind arched doors.

He circles the former guardian, pedes not even making the slightest whisper against the metal floor. There are marks, not his, that adorn the armor and disgrace the glossy beauty that he’s sure had been a mech’s pride once. Space’s edge black, infinite white and just a touch of burning crimson along biolights and seams.

How so very lovely.

He come to pause in front of him, taking in the trembling plating, the stressed posture and the exhaustion that leaks through the field despite the mech’s best attempts to keep it hidden. Fourteen deca-cycles in Darkmount is enough to stress even the hardiest of frames, much-less one who is built more for thinking.

Four thick cables snake out from their housing, slithering along the floor where they can be seen. They wind up the mech’s frame, finding ports and gently manipulating the covers off. He anticipates the thrash that follows, activating the magnacuffs and magnetizing the mech to the floor. Once he’s imoblized on his front, the cables plug in and begin to run the protocols necessary to hack at his fire walls. His primary mission is clear: gather intel.

Afterwards?

Well.

His hand touches a kneeling figure to his right, fingering a sensor horn gently. 

It would do well to have another Pet to play with. This one is going on loan to a needed companion, and a fellow music lover. His fingers brush from the stubby horn, to the angular face plates as he watches the other writhe as best as he can. The invasive viruses hurt, but those firewalls are entrenched deep. They must come down, one way- or another.

He really does not wish to kill him to do so, though it is easier to get information from a deactivated processor. The mech is simply too beautiful to desecrate in such away. 

The last firewall falls away, the mech’s core dangerously overheating from the attempt to fend him off. He withdraws the cables from his ports, but uses them to guide him up so that he can vent properly. However, his cortex is vulnerable and open to the telepath, and he knows that he cannot fight against him.

The despair and fear is delicious, but so is the fight that remains. It’s taken him four decaorns to get him down this far, to get him this exhausted and this tired. Four decaorns to get past his defenses. He hasn’t had such a challege since he broke his last pet.

How very wonderful, and he dives in. 

They play a merry game of chase through his cortex as he chases down important data through partitions and divisions. He plays tag and keep away with the tactical suite, giving it improbable situations to tie it up while he plunders the substantial cache of information that the Praxian holds. His processor is a jumbled, beautiful mess full of information and fight. It shoots warmth from his tank to his array, and laughs softly when the other shudders at the feel of his arousal. 

But, now is not the time to take him. Not yet. He needs to be broken further, to be stripped of everything. To be made to feel as if _he_ is disposable, before he can be built back up to something beautiful.

To be one of _his_. 

“Prowl: abandoned.”

He cups that aristocratic face, smiling behind his mask at the eyeteeth bared and the snarling visage that the Praxian throws at him. He’s muted his vocalizer so that he cannot speak back.

“Prowl: exhausted. Tired. Overworked.”

A light stroke to the jawline, holding his helm while he tries to jerk away.

“Prime: not logical. Wastes resources.”

He croons softly, sliding down until he’s kneeling in front of the former enforcer, feeling those vents hitch and catch. Thick purple cabling slides along the ivory armor until he finds gaps to inch through. They wind around arms and over the hinges to his door, brushing at the back of his helm and then along his audial. They are everywhere, sliding over sensor panels and intergrating into dataports to download sensations, upload packets. He bombards him with sensor data, with words, with truths and deceptions.

And whispers against his logic. 

“Prowl: will not win. Has already lost. Prowl: lost when he came in. All data: mine. All logic: mine. Prowl: has nothing. Prowl: is nothing.”

He smiles a bit wider as the mech screams against his audial, a sound of anguish, ferocity and absolute denial. It’s a ragged sound, and he allows it for a brief moment so that the beauty of it can resound in the box of a cell. His optics lid for a moment as it reverberates, feeling the trembling of that frame next to his. The working of the mech’s jaw as he holds it, and the struggling of his vents.

“Prowl: is nothing, except _mine_.”

He chuckles softly at another scream, giving him full range of his vocalizer for now as he eases up. A ping on his comm-line lets him know that his contact has arrived. A twist of his hand to his right gestures to the other, ordering it up and at his side with a silent command. The former commander starts, as if noticing the other mech for the first time, and he can see the dawning horror in his face.

“ _Primus_ …”

He glances over at the shorter pet, his own white and ivory glossy, detailed and polished. There’s a start, something that quivers beneath the plating and his programming. He can see it ripple, start as the fine mouth begins to open, to answer.

“Time to go.”

And fail, as his command reasserts itself.  It’s helm swivels towards him, visor flashing in obedience to his command. His hand slides along the back of it’s neck, but his focus is on Prowl. The other mech is shaking harder, grief warring with horror, with fury. He can see the urge to kill rising, blotting out all logic, all reason. 

“Prowl: no longer in control.”

He smiles behind the mask once more as he reaches over the keypad closing the door to the containment room, but not before he can hear the sundry threats thrown at him. The mech is going to be a delightful diversion, and a good pet once broken down to where he needs to be. He hates to give up the one he’s spent so much time training, but the game has begun and he needs pieces in their proper location.

He glances over at the large purple and black mech as he makes his way down the corridor.

“Soundwave: welcomes Tarn.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid confusion- this jumps back a few thousand vorns into the war. Prior to the journey to Earth.


	6. Chapter 6

It is not with pain that Prowl comes undone. _  
_

But with whispers. 

Time no longer has any meaning in this room, as he is the sole keeper. It has been almost a deca-orn since he’s given Tarn his incentive, and he’s quite missed his Pet. Thankfully, given the break in the Autobot supply lines at the present moment- there is a lull in the fighting.

He intends to use it to his advantage. 

Sending off frauded messages back to HQ detailing an extended Ops with the Poly’s chop had been a pleasant little diversion. Detailing an extended foray into space towards Outpost 84 had been quite the necessary diversion needed to explain Prowl’s absence.

All in all, loose ends- neatly tied up. 

And once training here is complete, they will be ready to be released back out into Autobot territory- but with Decepticon coding. It is a risky gambit, as Ratchet is a savvy enough medic to see into coding and figure out what’s supposed to be there, and what isn’t. 

But, Prowl is notorious for avoiding Ratchet due to overwork and processor ache and Jazz does not like to be in the med-bay any longer than necessary.

 The mechs’ own personalities work in his favor.

Which brings him back to his present conundrum as he stares down at the motionless tactician. There is a wealth of information in that processor, and the tac-net itself is a valuable resource that would be immeasurably useful to the Decepticon Cause. The most beneficial outcome would be to persuade Prowl to help them.

The most detrimental would be to simply offline him.

That is simply not an option.

He settles down, careful of his data cabling and his thinner armor in spots- and pulls Prowl into his lap. The other mech is still restrained, though his legs are now spread and hooked over his hips. He takes a moment to admire the clean, long lines of the Praxian. There is beauty here, under-appreciated and unnoticed. Slim fingers wander here and there, but never dipping towards the interface panel or towards the wing joints. 

At least, not yet.

One data-cable comes up, finding the installed port at the back of his helm and jacking in. The firewalls he encounters are fierce, snarling things that snap and bite at his intrusion.That’s all right. He’s faced off against Jazz once, and managed to get through the mech’s nest of viruses. He’ll get through these firewalls.

And so he whispers. 

_You are mine._

_The Autobots are not coming for you._

_You belong here._

_You have failed them._

_You have failed yourself._

_You are nothing more than a tool to be used._

_You could not save him._

_You will not save yourself._

_You are **mine.**_

Onward and continuously, he repeats this litany. Past the screaming, past the tearing. Past the mech’s antics that throw himself back and forth in those chains in painful desperation. He repeats them when Prowl tries to reason. 

Tries logic.

Tries threatening.

Tries to _beg_. 

He watches as realization sets in, despair and frustration following it. Fingertips brush the lean face, ignoring the flinch of contact and bringing him forward. Data cables hook into various ports, linking them together as he syncs Prowl’s data to his own.

He plunders the mech’s cache stores, but leaves burning arousal in it’s wake instead of the searing pain he’s so renown for. In his arms, the Praxian squirms and twists, pants and heaves.

Shame and anger roll off his frame and make his field buzz like a hive of silverwasps.

He retracts the mask and kisses him.

It is not gentle.

It is full of dentae and glossa and desperation. There is a need for contact, for something stable from the other- and he winds arms around that waist to pull him hard onto a straining spike. Their first interface is in that room, a twisting ball of snapping charge and snarling vocalizers. 

Well, _Prowl_ snarls. 

He exults in his victory, albeit silently. 

He brands the Praxian over and over, scoring him with sharp claws and harsh bites to illicit wavering moans and sharp cries. He does not touch the doors, but he plays their sensors like a theremin. Overload slams into them both like a freighter, but it knocks the strategist offline. 

And he merely curls the offlined form into his arms, pulling him out of that room and into his own personal quarters. Breaking is only the first step of training.

There is still much to do, but he thinks…

He thinks…

He may just keep this Pet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know why the cage bird sings, but somewhere along the line- I think I've broken it's wings.

_**Location:** Nemesis. _

Tarn likes the fact that pets needed no leash. Obedient and graceful, they walk behind their betters in graceful trails. Some of them had been warriors once, their gait still bearing the stride of one who had once dominated the battlefield.

Others had been more of a civilian slant, their frames dictating what they had done once upon a lifetime ago. Unfortunately, despite their differences- they all had one common denominator.

They had once been foolish enough to throw their lot in with the Autocracy.

Now, they walk behind their victors in the same invisible chains that they had once held others in. The irony appeals. As does the observation room in which they find themselves, space reflecting in bright colors and whorls from transparent adamantium.

He glances over at the ranking officer from DHC. Soundwave is enigmatic at best, and down right terrifying at worst. There are carefully cultivated rumors that circulate about how no one ever survives his interrogation sessions with their processor intact if he so wills it. And the ones that do, come out changed. He doesn’t know if it’s true, but… one has to admire his sense of _style_. He knows he’s being summoned for a reason, and gifted for another. It’s tantalizing, and delicious- a pet of his _own_ , and so well connected. 

“How can I serve you, sir.”

The ornate helm tilts to one side as he is regarded. He can feel the mech’s scrutinizing gaze, and maybe the barest brush of telepathy to ascertain his abject devotion. Like it’s ever in question, he’ll submit to as many scans as the interrogator/communications officer wants.

He is innocent of the crime of treason. 

He takes the datapad that is offered to him, a set highly encoded data-packets that are not to be trusted across comms. His helm bobs in a nod as he looks over the orders within. It’s a tricky job, and a rather lengthy set of operations that he’ll need to follow. 

There is also no end of duration.

“Is there a…”

“Tarn: until further notice.”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

He turns off the datapad, opening up the commlink that Soundwave establishes between the two of them. Officially, the former gladiator is his commanding officer, but unofficially he is an avid supplier of music and other things that he eagerly hungers for.

A trapping of gentility that he wants to call his own. 

He acknowledges the sound-files with a wave of gratitude, locking them down to his personal hard drives before looking over at the silent Pet once more. The communications officer never flaunts, but he is not above showing a warning when it is necessary. Perfectly obedient, and perfectly silent- the Pet has not so much as moved a patch of plating other than to vent since it arrived. 

“Pet: can sing the arias provided. Pet: will sing, if commanded. Tarn: records impeccable. Tarn: in need of reward.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“Soundwave: does not flatter. Soundwave: does appreciate, however.”

The mask is lifted just enough that he can see the barest edge of a smile along thin lips to reveal sharp dentae before it is snapped back down. Data cables that had been plugged into the communications array on the wall slither silently back into the ports at his back and he slips back into the shadows as silently as he had arrived.

Leaving Tarn to himself, and with his Pet. 

He watches the disappearing act with no small amount of appreciation. It’s not lost on him that this is as much a warning as it is a gift, and that the Pet is probably reporting back any and all sundry information that Soundwave may find interesting.

Let him.

He might be able to impress Soundwave with his prowess, his intelligence and whatever else the former pit fighter might be looking for. But, that is a thought for another orn, and another time. Now, he has his own Pet to play with. The thought makes him giddy, and a smile spread across his lips. The Pet’s reflective polish makes him gleam in the dim light, highlight and accenting the sharp V of his pelvic cradle, the roll of gimbals at the hips and the narrow waist that flares upwards to a powerful set of shoulder struts. The black talons that taper the edges of his servos are a nice touch, and he wonders if that was a later addition.

He hums after a moment, making a slow circuit around the shorter Pet to take him in from all angles. 

The Pet is nearly a mini-bot in stature in height, but some provincial coding in casting his frame type left him with slimness instead of the stocky, rotundness that characterizes the style. He wants to see what he’s capable of, and just where all of his talents lie.

Though, that visor has to go.

There will be no secrets between Master and Pet.

He inclines his helm after a long moment of consideration, then flicks his fingers in a silent command to be followed. The Pet turns on a heel, and follows at his pedes at the proscribed distance. He smirks behind his own mask as envious optics are cast their way from other officers, lower commanders that can’t be _bothered_ to adhere so completely to the Decepticon Cause.

Pitiful fools.

He holds the door open as he slips into his temporary quarters, making sure that the other follows before he closes it and activates the lock. He sends the music packet to his comm-station, allowing the entertainment applications to come online and start playing the gifts that Soundwave have left him. He hasn’t heard the strains of _Symphony #4 in Tripsico Harmony on the third Alpha-wave_ since Altihex had been leveled. It was the last great work by Maestro Harmonex, and a masterpiece. A faint groan is allowed as he sinks down into one of the comfortable seating pieces, and he regards the standing Pet curiously.

“Tell me, Pet.  You may speak. Do you like this piece?”

The helm does not turn to him, but the voice that flows from that vocalizer is smooth and soft- like refined energon.

“Can’t say that I have ever heard of it, sir.”

“You have never heard of Maestro Harmonex? That is a true pity, Pet. He was the last great composer of the Golden Age. His music commanded attention, his genius filled stands, sparks… processors.”

He gestures for the mech to stand before him, a hand coming up to gently brush along the curve of a hip, the dip of his waist. He pauses as he slides a hand down to one wrist, turning it over gently to show the faded guild mark of a by-gone Polyhexian musical caste lingering in faint imprint on one greave.

“Soundwave said that you could sing. How well do you perform with distractions?”

His other hand creeps up, gently disengaging the latches that hold that blue band in place. It is removed carefully, placed on the table beside them. Tilted optics regard him for a moment before they flick down respectfully, the gold light dimming. He allows his thumb to brush over his lips before slipping inside to skim over the pliable glossa. His free hand comes around to push the other closer, positioning him until he straddles his lap, and then slides around until the angular chin is pointed upwards. 

There is the faintest hint of trembling along the slim frame, the strain from spreading so wide or perhaps from switching masters so suddenly. He hasn’t forgotten that his question has gone unanswered, but in the lieu of such distractions.

He won’t punish him.. this time.

For now, however, he cups it’s face with both hands and allows his own mask to slide back as he smiles down at his new gift. His vocalizer’s settings shift, click and audibly reset as his gift comes online, and the _voice_ slips out to hit every major pleasure relay that the pet’s frame is gifted with. They come online one by one in a cascade effect that makes the lithe frame quake. A high-pitched keen escapes as the slim back arches upwards, chest locks unlatching to bare the whorling ball of light. Charge snaps between flared plating, those black-tipped talons scoring in reflex as tensors seize. He smiles widely, dipping down to caress one sensor horn with his lips as he speaks- tone dipping down into a lower register as he ignores the lubrication that drips from between them both. 

“ _Sing._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same timeline- different characters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wind the toy, let the key go. Watch the gears begin to slow.

He dances, the shadows at his back like a cloak.

The Empyrean Suite runs through his helm and frame, clinging to processors and glitched memory files. He can’t remember all of them, and sometimes when he pauses in his dance at a rest in the music to catch breath and to cool down for a moment- they glitch on him.

For a moment, he can hear someone calling for him and searching.

And then the order comes again.

_“Dance.”_

And his frame begins moving again in graceful movements, finding the beat once more and sinking into them. It’s almost instinct to follow it, to allow it to overcome him, to be nothing _more_ than the music. 

But if he does, he risks losing all that’s left of himself. In the fog of change, in the mist left by Soundwave and the warmth from Tarn- he’s dangerously close to becoming someone else entirely. He dances because he is ordered to, because he loves to.

Because in this one space, there is nothing but him the song.

And when the song winds to an end, and the toy that he has become winds down with it- he quietly wonders what will become of the scattered ashes that are left of his self. His frame drops like a cut marionette, legs and arms splaying in graceful patterns as his vents heave to capture cooler air and redistribute it. Burbles of something filter through his processor, there and gone again as soon as the other speaks.

“Well done.”

It is a purring voice, full of wonderment and darkness. If the night’s sky had a voice, this is what he imagines it would sound like. Purring and rough, velvety and ominous. 

Clawed hands pick him up, cradling him against a warm chest as he’s picked up and brought down off his high at the same time. A startled cry escapes him, cramps seizing up on sore tensors and overworked and overclocked struts and lines. He is laid on the cool berth while the other works over him, sliding off extraneous armor and stripping him down to the bare protoform.

It’s comforting, and at the same time terrifying. 

A cold cloth comes to his faceplates, wiping condensation off of him. His helm tilts to one side so that he can look up at the other, not sure as what to call him yet as he hasn’t been given a title. His mouth works a little, sharp dentae flashing as he tries to speak. One hand attempts to come up, but it is intercepted gently and laid to rest at the side of his helm.

“I did not give you permission to speak, Pet. Remember…” His optics close as the other moves closer, whispering against the sensitive ridge of his audial horn, “You do not exist outside of this room…”

His frame shudders at that, feeling heat as he’s slowly covered by the larger frame- knees nudged apart to make room. Something like rebellion stirs up in the back of his processor, now that the other is not here to fog it up with his whispers and words. It’s an animal thing, and he can’t stop it before it rears forth and burbles out of his throat.

It’s not a scream, it’s not a yell- but it’s something in between. He thrashes underneath the other, other hand coming up with claws bared to score over unprotected neck cabling. He doesn’t do any killing damage, but hot fluid splatters on his abdomen, pooling towards the juncture of his legs. 

The hand holding his bound wrist tightens, other hand coming up to slide over his throat and clamp down before he can make another move. It’s a choking hold, cutting off circulation and air. He thrashes again, bucking against him and trying to get leverage to throw him off. It succeeds in nothing other than tiring him out further and he collapses against the berth with straining systems.

There is silence for a moment or two, save for heaving vents. The warmth over him shifts only to move closer, pinning him a bit more effectively. His other hand is captured before he can use it to attack again- and the fingers suddenly suffused with warmth as Tarn begins to lick his own energon off the hooked claws.

“I had hoped Soundwave hadn’t completely broken you…”

That low, cultured voice- purring and velvety like spilled poison. He pauses long enough to remove the mask from his face-plates, and lean back down towards him.

“I’m going to enjoy finishing the job…”

He snarls quietly, choking once as the hand tightens almost to the point of crushing his esophageal tube entirely. One thumb slides up to brush along the underside of his jaw, touching the flushing dura-form as energon backs up and makes the plating flush.

“And when your little springs wind down, and the last of your dances finish.” He rumbles softly, shifting until they are nestled hip to hip, helm to helm- forcing the attention on him. “I will be the one to take your spark.”

He shudders at that, whole frame shaking as one hand slides below to splay over his chest panels.

“Now, be a good Pet- and **_open._** ”

Both covers open, the chest plates spiraling open to reveal the blue-white spark, and modesty plating retracting. He can no more disobey the other than he can stop breathing. And as he feels the other’s chestlocks slide into place and arrays slide flush together, he allows himself one last little cry of desperation.

And an apology, though he can’t remember to whom it should go to.

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

Black out.

_You are **mine.**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

_“Meister: Connect me to Tarn.”  
_

The words flow and flit through the processor ghosts. Codexes pop up, running command lines and prompts that haven’t been seen in vorns. The figure, alone and single at his console, shakes and shudders as the prompt continues. 

Soundwave is treated to one single, glare filled with absolute _hate_  that permeates through the visor before the virus fully takes hold. He pays it no mind, watching with satisfaction as the mech on the screen tries to fight it- but it’s integrated too well. He didn’t set up tripwires and land mines, he detonated entire fields full of memories and experiences. Everything is tied into code words and phrases that only he knows.

That only he can  untangle. 

Sharp dentae peek out from between thin lips as the struggle continues, and ultimately fails. Twenty kilks in, and the lithe frame shakes and shudders as it vents from overheating. 

But loyal. 

“Connecting to Tarn: Frequency established, master.” The words are softly spoken, dulcet and musical. 

His helm inclines both at the restablishment of the virus’s foothold, that he begins to bolster remotely from his position- and the connection. Readouts from prior Autobot movements, Black Ops divisions, copies from tactical readouts, and current ops lie open for his taking.

And take he does. 

Everything is copied over onto his own clamshell terminal, locked and broken down so that it cannot be stripped. Everything is copied onto his own personal memory banks as well, the smirk widening as every single high-profile ranking Autobot begins to pop up in real-time location.

Ratchet-  //  _Iaconis Medical._ //

Ultra Magnus -  // _Iaconus Prima -Security Division._ //

Arcee-   // _Patrol - Rust Sea Division w/ Smokescreen_  //

Prowl-   // _Iaconus Prima- Tactical Division_ // 

Jazz-  // _Iaconus Prima- Outer Rim, near Ura_ //

He laughs softly as each rank and file continues to list on the surviving Autobot side. Even the Wreckers are still alive, though he has no idea where the bulk of them are located. He gives a list and location to Tarn of previous Decepticon desertees, but with a stern order NOT to eradicate them- merely to gather them back up.

Knock Out, however, he’ll leave in Iacon. The mech never made a good Decepticon anyway. 

Slim fingers dart over the keyboard as several other real-time positions come up, this time with purple identifying markers. He studies these for several moments before taking a capture and returning to the prior map. A moment longer in consideration, and he shuts down all but one target.

He does not need to leave his Pet without instructions, and he prints a quick flimsy- along with the warning that there ARE cameras- and he will be watching. 

But he has a job to do, and another Pet to visit- and Prowl is long overdue.

One moment, and an open window later and he is gone, the humming computer with it’s dark screen his only hint at having been there to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we jump towards the current timeline.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When first we practice to deceive.

He never could understand Jazz’s fascination with human horror movies. Flickering lights, implausible plot-lines and idiocy abounded, which resulted in nonsensical deaths. They had briefly been stationed on the planet during the worst of the fighting in a place called the _Carolinas_. Mountainous, hilly and forested- they hadn’t been able to meet up with Team Prime until after the worst of the fighting had taken place outside of Jasper. 

But during their extended recon, Jazz had predictably fallen in love with the local culture- which included (most) forms of entertainment.

But now, as the lights in the hallway of the security wing begin to flicker on and off due to the acid storm building up.

He can start to somewhat understand the apprehension. 

The power grid is still somewhat unstable because the infrastructure is still piecemeal. They’ve been working on restoring security systems, power stations and energon refineries where they could to get Iacon back to at least forty percent working capacity.

But the lack of efficiency and lack of necessary personnel is telling, especially since a large portion of their workers wore the purple brand.

Irony, that. 

Still, flickering lights and humming consoles is no reason to allow himself to wander from concentration. He still has half a joor’s work left to complete, and Jazz has not yet reported in. Normally, he’d go find the mech himself- but the storm’s tendency to knock out both relays and roads makes it impossible.

And it’s pouring heavily towards the Outer Rim, effectively cutting him off. 

He won’t deny that he isn’t just a little bit concerned.

_Humm… **flick**_. 

His helm snaps up as one of the relays to the cameras outside goes offline, frowning. It’s not uncommon, and indeed- is a hassle. It means that either he, or the next mech on shift will have to go outside after the storm and replace it in order to make sure the cameras continue recording in sync.

**_Flick._ **

**_Flick._ **

**_Flick._ **

**_Flick._ **

His optics widen slightly as each relay begins to snap off in succession in the space of several invents. Servos snap up to the console, beating out a rapid tattoo of orders over the board. He brings up the command prompts and the process trees, and it’s wrenched from him. Code is swiped, disappearing and reappearing with completely different integers and glyphs that he doesn’t even recognize. 

He is no master hacker, but he’s not untrained either. He dives back in an attempt to try to wrestle some sort of control from whoever is digging their metaphorical talons into his computer. A faint growl escapes him unnoticed, lips curling over dentae as he concentrates.

And…just as suddenly as the code lines had begun… they stop, giving him a blank black screen. His fingers pause over the console, frowning as an image begins to download.

It’s… of Earth origin, and he vaguely recognizes it as something Jazz called a “smiley face.”

He rears his helm back in confusion, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth. Then jerks still as something brushes the back of his helm, and then _locks_ in. Immediately, he is bombarded by a presence battering at his firewalls, viruses twisting their way like strands of razor-wire through plating. A surprised snarl escapes him before he can contain it back, and he reaches to around to try to pull out what’s hurting him.

And comes face to face with a very old nightmare.

His internals freeze cold as he stares up at the blank facemask, old memory files trying to play unbidden. He squashes them relentlessly, but he can’t stop the sudden tremors that begin to dance up and down his frame. He is NOT afraid of the other mech, but… he is very much aware of what he can do.

“Soundwave.” The designation is hissed, more than stated- through clenched dentae and narrowed optics. 

“Pet,” monotones the returned answer, the hidden cables tightening their way around the black-and-white frame. 

The lack of field around the mech had allowed him to get around those sensitive door panels, giving him an advantage.

Thin fingers reach up to touch his face, and he snarls at that- first in defiance and secondly in pain as the first set of firewalls are breached. The second set shore up, snapping forward like bulwarks before a stormsurge. They last a few moments more before they too are overwhelmed, leaving his third, and last set. 

The viruses hover just above them, pausing. 

“Pet: can return on his own. Or, Pet will be punished. Meister, already collared. Ratchet, collared. Prowl:… has choice.” Those thin fingers stroke again, pausing just below his lower lip. There’s a light bit of pressure, a reminder of pain- just dancing past the edge.

“Has choice,” he repeats- waiting.

He winces inwardly as his downed firewalls quiver and twist like broken limbs. Soundwave didn’t have to tear through them, he already knows the mech could have simply hacked him a different way. It’s a demonstration of power, of control… of just how faulty the security systems are. How faulty the entire system is. 

How faulty he is. 

But he refuses to go without one last fight, and he growls in a roar as he lunges at the slimmer mech. The cables tighten at the exact same time as the viruses descend, and screaming _agony_ rakes through his processor like live wires. They ransack everything, turning over memory trees, experience roots, memory fields and file systems. Nothing is left untouched, nothing is left overturned. 

Even his personal, emotional memories are plucked like fruit and examined.

And the voice that comes, soft and disappointed- like Optimus, but somehow, so much worse. It seeps into his processor, into his frame- sending waves of absolute _shame_ , of despair to stab like so many vibroblades. 

_I will twist these memories, Pet._ _I will make you hate every fiber of his frame. You will never remember loving him. You will never remember feeling. Ashes and flame, Pet. Ashes and dust. You should have made a better choice. Beg me, and I may reconsider._

_Beg me, and I may change my processor._

_Your pride and your hubris have brought you here, like they brought you to me in the first place. I was ever your master, I was ever your savior. I waited for your return, I waited for your fall._

_And you thought you were rid of me._

_My stamp is on you. My mark remains. It never left, and it never will._

_You will always be **mine.**  _

_**Beg me, Pet.**  _

And to his greatest shame, he does. They come spilling out of his mouth as each word trips a different code in his processor, initiating another piece of the hack. Each piece integrates with another piece, further cementing the hidden chains that has been woven across him. He can feel them snapping back into place, feel them subverting who he is into who he was.

The words pour out of him in a torrent. His tactical suite twists and writhes in it’s containment, causing his frame to shudder and shake and overheat- and before he can stop it, it cascades into a shut down. 

Soundwave follows him into the darkness, where he has always been. 

Just for a bare moment, before he’s completely claimed- there is the barest hint of praise.

_Well done, Pet. Welcome home._

_**Flick.** _


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the loudest sound is [the absence of.]

It causes more than a little spot of anxiety when the outpost goes quiet, static snow on screens and an overturned chair to mark an absence of their most astute and wary Autobot. Ultra Magnus is more than concerned, as there is something that nags at the edges of his logic ridden world. It eats at the corners, like glitchmice in wires, making things spark just on the peripheral of his guesswork.

But never where he can see it directly.

He researches and investigates, but nothing on cameras and nothing but snow and static, hearsay and speculation. He stands on theories and suppositions, as stable as sand and silt. And it slips through his fingers as orns past, and nothing surfaces. His desk becomes a second home. There’s still entire sectors of Cybertron that remain un-explored and a perfect hiding spot for any former Decepticons that still may exist. Even Megatron himself has turned exile, and they haven’t seen anything since after Optimus’s sacrifice. 

There’s really nothing else to call it.

His desk had turned into a who’s-who of missing reports. There had been faces that had gone amiss anyway during the war, but... these were recent. 

Elita. 

Chromia.

Bluestreak.

Jazz.

And now Prowl.

The first two, he suspected- were merely lying low on one of the outer colonies- possibly having gone AWOL. Bluestreak, had suffered one or two processor glitches of his own and had served time briefly in Garrus-9 after nearly killing his commander. Granted, the mech HAD been a pain and eventually a Decepticon plant.

 The last two... he can’t even pretend to understand why... or how.

Unless they had gone rogue.

With Jazz, there had always been the underlying possibility that his chaos would have descended into madness, and eventually into desertion. Prowl’s cold logic, sometimes taking paramount over his sense of loyalty could have also been at fault. He wants to believe that it’s a calculated Decepticon attack, that Prowl had been brought away against his will. He is willing to believe that before willing desertion- because the mech has always been loyal, and ever a friend.

Because despite the tenuous peace- once a rakesnake, always a rakesnake, and Decepticons will _never_ change. 

 He reaches up, dragging a hand across his faceplates in an expression of exhaustion and watches the layout across his console.

The only mechs he has left that he trusts are Wheeljack, Bumblebee, and Ratchet.

And maybe it’s time to visit them, remind himself why he’s still collared to this job. 

Yes, that would do well.   
  
Ratchet’s always had the acidic bluster and snarl that he’s needed to clear his helm. He needs some of that biting wit and acerbic honesty now. Sunset finds him on what’s left of Iacon’s road, heading west- towards the residential district. He has not left unobserved, as a lone drone flits back across the sky to shadow his tracks. 

Exactly as intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, we see the beginning of the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicating this to Dracoqueen, for always reviewing and always commenting. You keep me going.


End file.
